


touch

by agentcalliope



Series: quinque [1]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Canon Compliant, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Friendship/Love, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Roy Mustang is a stubborn blind fool
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-17
Updated: 2018-05-17
Packaged: 2019-05-08 06:11:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14688123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agentcalliope/pseuds/agentcalliope
Summary: In the nighttime, the cracks grow and the blood spills and the screams ricochet.he wakes up, and sees nothing.(but the day is softer)





	touch

* * *

 

 

He’s either being haunted by ghosts, or he’s becoming one. If there’s a difference, Roy can’t tell.

 

He squeezes his eyes, grips the edge of the sink. Tries to force himself to forget, forces himself to remember. Tries to breathe, and to breathe evenly.

In, out.

In, out.

In and out in and out out in out—

 

Choking, he looks into the mirror and he sees nothing but flames and blood and _death_.

 

Roy reaches out, touching the glass, with his red-painted fingers. It cracks, and with it, so does he. Sees the cracks grow, and the flames grow, and the blood spills faster and the screams ricochet and blow right into him.

He sees himself, right in the middle of it all.

With a gasp, Roy wakes up.

He sees nothing.

 

* * *

 

The nurse is kind. She’s gentle as she leads him into the bathroom, and she places one of his hands on the sink and a razor in his other.

“Colonel, are you sure you don’t want any help?”

 

Roy follows the sound of her voice, and he estimates on where he should cast his gaze. Makes sure to paint on a smile, the one he knows women can never resist. He has a reputation to maintain, too, after all.

 

“Most definitely, Miss Jocie.”

“But Colonel Mustang, sir…” He feels her fidgeting, her hand on his arm. “Your hands are still bandaged… and your sight—”

“Miss Jocie, I can assure you that I am perfectly capable of shaving myself.” He makes sure his smile stays the same, and that his voice vibrates with confidence. “I appreciate your concern, but I believe I can manage.”

 

“Of course, sir.” The nurse clears her throat. “The razor is already in your right hand, and now I am placing the shaving cream in your left.” True to her word, Roy feels a can being tenderly pressed into his grasp.

“If you need anything, sir, just call me.”

He nods. “Thank you.”

 

And then she leaves, and leaves Roy alone in a bathroom, with a razor and shaving cream, and a mirror in which he cannot see.

 

* * *

 

He’s a stubborn fool. A stubborn, blind, fool.

 

Roy curses as he nicks himself, again, and sighs deeply. His face and neck sting. He’s sure that, as the water runs down the drain, there is blood mixing in with it. How much there is though, is what he can’t tell.

 

He finds that he doesn’t really care.

 

“Colonel?”

Her voice, as always, is firm. Firm, and steady. It is the voice that has guided him, protected him, and has cared for him throughout the years.

Even so, Roy grips the razor handle tightly, and it hurts to do so. It seems that his wounds, no matter how he feels, are still deep.

“Lieutenant,” Roy begins. He doesn’t turn towards the sound of her voice, but remains where he stands. “What are you doing here?”

“The nurse said you were in here, sir.”

“Hm.”

 

There’s a pause, and then she continues.

“Sir, you’re bleeding.”

“I’m well aware, Lieutenant.” Roy grumbles, lowering his head. “Is there something you need from me? Or can I continue?”

This time, when she speaks, her voice is low and quiet. “Colonel,” Hawkeye says. “Let me help you.”

For a moment, he imagines a light brush against his arm. Her hand, both calloused and soft, resting gently on his wool uniform. For a moment, he can almost convince himself that it was real.

What a stubborn and blind fool he is.

Before he can think otherwise, Roy sticks out his hand, and offers her the razor.

 

Hawkeye takes it, and he listens as she runs it under the water.

“How are you?” Roy asks.

“I’m just fine, sir. Thank you for asking.”

He braces himself, expecting the cold steel of the razor on his cheek, but instead, it’s cloth. He doesn’t flinch from the touch.

“Sorry, sir. Have to clean up the mess you’ve already already made.” She lifts the cloth and presses it on the side of his neck.

Roy blinks. “You’re always cleaning up my messes, aren’t you Lieutenant?”

“Yes sir.”

He can hear her smile.

 

Roy lets her move the cloth all around his face and neck, stopping the bleeding. Healing the wounds that he’s caused, that he’s given to himself.

 

“How bad is it, Lieutenant?”

“You’ll live.”

She begins slow, sliding the razor against his skin. It glides, and her fingers on his chin push him to look up, so she can reach underneath.

Roy blinks, unseeing, but he feels _everything_.

What had taken him minutes to do, she’s finished in seconds. He hears the clink of the razor as she sets it on the side, and he feels as she wets another towel, and wipes his face.

And then— then, she places a hand on his cheek.

He closes his eyes, leans into her touch.

Hawkeye quickly pulls away. “I’m sorry, sir.” Her voice firm as ever. “That was unprofessional of me.”

“Riza.” Roy whispers, lifting his own-bandaged hand. Reaching out into the unknown, the dark, unseeing. “Please.”

There’s no hesitation as he feels her takes his hand in hers, and as he rests their hands against his cheek again, he feels…

 

safe.

 

* * *

 

He’s either being haunted by ghosts, or he’s becoming one. He doesn’t know if there’s difference, and doesn’t think he’s ever going to figure it out.

He tries to force himself to forget the screams, the way they all burned under his touch. Only the innocents suffer in war, and the guilty suffer after.

He tries to force himself to remember, because he can’t ever let it happen again. He must carry these wounds and scars and know that they are his burden to bear, no matter how heavy it feels.

Roy tries to breathe, and to breathe evenly.

In, out.

Her fingers on his chin, the razor gliding on his skin.

In, out.

Her hand on his cheek.

In, out.

Roy breathes. Steady and firm as her voice.

In, out.

Yes, his fingers are still splattered with red as he reaches out. Yes, the mirror still cracks, and with it, so does he. Yes, Roy still sees the cracks grow, and the flames grow, and the blood spills faster and the screams ricochet and blow right into him.

And yes, he still sees himself, right in the middle of it all.

But this time, he lets himself see something in his reflection other than the flames and the destruction, the despair and the death.

He sees _her_ , standing besides him. Ready to run from the ghosts that chase them.

Ready for the day when they can’t do it anymore, and they must face them, they’ll face them together.

With a gasp, Roy wakes up.

He sees nothing.

 

 

(but he smiles.)

**Author's Note:**

> my first fullmetal alchemist fic! thank you SO MUCH to paybackraid, welldonefitz, and buckysbears for rooting me on and betaing.


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